


The Clock

by silver_fish



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/F, M/M, Suicidal thoughts from characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_fish/pseuds/silver_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The clock is always ticking. But, eventually, everything must come to an end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: The Days Before

**Author's Note:**

> this story will be very, very dark. please, be warned that within this fic you'll find characters with suicidal thoughts/actions. and, as i'm sure you've noticed, it will be major character death. please, be warned of that. and if you choose to continue forward, i hope you enjoy this. i admit that it's probably the darkest thing i've written yet, and it has made me cry in the process of writing. so, thank you for reading, and i would love to hear your thoughts!

A clock is clicking, slowly, slowly, agonizingly slow. The clock counts down all the time we have left in this world. The clock counts down the small numbers that we are in an infinite expanse of darkness. You cannot see the clock, but, oh, can you hear it.

The clock kills. Eventually, the clock stops. It's always ticking, yet once you can no longer hear it, that's how you know—that's how you know you're gone.

People are small. Insignificant. Nothing but lost time and lost words and something so unimportant, yet somehow the basis of all life.

But, sometimes, you can find significance in the smallest of things. In her tone of voice, in her sparkling eyes, in her burning fire.

And every story of significance, of finding oneself in chocolatey eyes, of growing bigger, brighter, is worth telling.

* * *

Pansy has always been a coward. To hide in the corner, to stifle emotions and loyalties, to self-preserve. It's why she's a Slytherin. It's what her mother always taught her to be, to use her jagged, cutting words when it was safe and to draw up shields when it wasn't. To drop any loyalties to those she loved if it became a matter of her own life or death. To sit back and watch it unfold, because there's a time and a place for heroes, and it would never be her place to be a hero.

Hermione Granger— _she's_ a hero, with her burning fire and her intelligence and her bright smile that just always  _knows._ Pansy has seen it, a passionate flame in her eyes, many times. Always for different reasons. Ridiculously loyal to what matters to her, yet always willing to bend the rules if need be. Ruthless, out of control—a wide-spread fire, destroying whatever it needs to thrive.

Pansy wishes, desperately, that she could be like that, with flames in her eyes and emotions on her sleeves, yet still so feared, cowered before. To be oppressed, yet so capable of spinning it around and holding the oppressor under wandpoint.

But that's not who she is, never has been. She's the water, going where the wind or the river may direct her, pleased to blend in easily. She's frozen into ice, hard and solid yet breakable with just the right amount of force, melted simply by fire. She's mist, evaporated after all the stress of the world brought heat into her body.

Her mother taught her long ago that agony is a feeling she should never have to properly feel. Hiding will keep her safe. It always has.

She cannot hide from the flames.

An old cliché, something simple, almost ironic, maybe. A moth drawn to flame. Hiding in the dark, petrified, until brightness shines through the shadows, blinding, intoxicating.

Pansy is a creature born of fear and darkness and pure coldness. Of a calming breath to quell a storm in her head, in her heart. Of simple, whispering magic that could never rival too much. Of cowardice, of malice, of a small intake of breath when the snow begins to fall.

She thinks that life is like a chessboard. This piece of wisdom comes from Draco, who has always loved chess, has always been wonderful at chess, has always been cool and calculating and genuinely smart. He told her this, when she had collapsed and finally admitted that she was  _scared,_ that scared was all she knew.

"I think that it's about . . . strategy," he said quietly. "If the leaders know how to direct their pawns, they can make an opening to the centre. That's fear, isn't it? Knowing there's a breach in your system, knowing things won't last forever."

"The pawns don't mean anything," she whispered, shaking her head slowly.

"No," Draco said gravely. "We mean  _everything_."

And some part of Pansy did register his use of "we" where it may have been a "they," but another part of her denied that they were pawns at all.

Maybe she should have allowed it to be bigger, to fill her up. Instead, she sits here now, breathing fast and wondering if she can make her way to the other side, if being afraid right now is what will help. It always has, hasn't it?

But right now, she can't imagine how it might. How could one possibly hide between the Light and the Dark, sift between the shades of grey? She doesn't think she  _can_. In this moment, she wishes she could be brave. Brave like Draco, who took the Mark, took an impossible task and held it in his hands; brave like Potter, who has always stood before the Dark, when it would be so much easier for him to succumb to the dark; brave like Weasley, who stands in front of his friends with a raised head and a challenge in his eyes; or, brave like Hermione, who has always pushed through crowds and held herself still, even when the world didn't think she could be powerful enough to do it. Pansy wants to be brave—oh, how she  _yearns_ for it—but she is no Gryffindor. She is  _Slytherin,_ through and through. It's who she's been taught to be, who she's been for as long as she can remember.

Self-preservation. About her—her safety, her happiness. Never anybody else. Always her.

But then she lost sight of herself, and only saw bushy hair and brown eyes. She found, amazingly, that she didn't mind so much. Even now, months later, she still doesn't.

There's a war raging outside of the castle walls. It's Dark on Light, red on green. Pansy feels  _dirty,_ already, though she hasn't seen the war itself. She feels  _nauseated,_ as if it's her battle, and yet it is not. She will hide, away, fold herself gently into a corner. She will avoid the war, avoid the Mark, avoid the clashing of spells. To stay alive, stay alive—that's all it ever is, all it's ever been.

Hermione Granger is across the hall from her, tight lips and dulled eyes. She knows the war is out there, too. But, for her, it's about more than survival. It's about  _winning,_ to see the end of the war and the effects the end will bring. For people like her, for the ones who have never felt the comfort in the world as people like Pansy have.

She's speaking with her friends, shaking her head. Pansy watches her, some kind of calm settling through her easily. Hermione is something she never did know she needed—until she had.

Facing that need head on, though, brings Pansy reeling back. And the thought crosses her mind, causing her to feel absolutely pitiful, though the feeling has washed over her a thousand times before.

She's scared, and  _damn_ does she feel it.

* * *

It's a prickling down her spine, and tear from her cheek to her pillowcase. It's seeing Hermione Granger in the library and watching her with simple  _yearning._ It's falling into a panic, because she doesn't have a plan for this.

"You love her," is the matter-of-fact whisper in the library as Pansy only pretends to focus on the assigned Transfiguration work.

Pansy whirls around to face Draco, feeling sombre. She can only nod, her throat strangled. After a moment, she swallows and says softly, "But you understand."

A cruel smile twists his lips. "Too well for my liking, Pans."

And Pansy is struck with the cool irony of it all. Things  _could_ be easier. Pansy could have fallen in love with Draco, the Pureblooded Slytherin she was always supposed to marry. Draco, for his part, could have fallen for her in return. But it had worked out this way, with Draco knowing that it was always Potter; with Pansy knowing it had to be Hermione.

That's the way of the world. And, oh, how cold it can be.

* * *

Sixth year was bad, but as the seventh begins, Pansy begins to understand that this is worse. She can't hide, not here. How could she? The Dark magic within the castle trickles like rivers through the corridors, soaking the bottoms of her feet similarly to how her tears soak her skin at night. She's  _afraid,_ for the things she always knew would come yet never expected to have to face.

The opportunity to run has passed. She thinks it passed a lot time ago.

September has faded to October, and the falling leaves represent something bigger than the end of summer. The end of innocence, of proper warmth, of an era.

The peace shattered a long time ago. Pansy is only just beginning to feel the harsh tendrils of tension wrapping around her. They strangle her. She can no longer see the sky.

Draco doesn't speak. He flinches from touch. He keeps his head down and he wakes up in the night with terror screaming in his eyes.

Blaise tries to keep the mood up, but once he said something about Potter and Draco left the room. Pansy thinks there were tears in his eyes.

As for Pansy, she's  _lost._ Some kind of wandering soul, trapped to a body for too long. She wants  _out._ She wants it to  _end._ She met fives hexes in two days down the corridor from the rebels under the school roof. She met a  _Crucio_ when she attempted to step away from the Dark.

If she could choose, now, between living and dying, she knows what her choice would be. But she  _can't,_ because who would help Draco when he wakes up from nightmares? Who would sling an arm around Blaise and offer him a smile when it seemed there were none left to give? Right now, there are only shadows. Pansy thinks they won't go away for a long time.

She tries to be brave. She isn't, though. She's a Slytherin. Nothing about her has  _ever_ been courageous, noble—something worth fighting for, or even fighting  _with_.

Hermione is brave. She's brave, amongst many things. And right now, she's out there somewhere,  _being_ brave. And Pansy is here, wishing she knew how.

* * *

It's one of those nights, where everything anybody says will cause  _someone_ to snap. The air is fraught with tension, the cord long since having been frayed. Someone was hit with the Cruciatus two hours ago—a fifth year student, Pansy thinks. They're still in the hospital wing.

When the Slytherins are punished, the school falls into collective chaos. At this point, it's not about blood or loyalty, but  _fear_. Pansy knows fear, has felt it in the front of her mind for years. She understands it. It's a vital part of who she is.

Draco, poor Draco, with his Marked forearm and worry over someone who was meant to be an enemy, has never had to face fear quite like this. Long gone is the arrogant, confident eleven-year-old that came into Hogwarts with the word "Mudblood" on his lips and his grey eyes bright. That Draco was naïve. This Draco is solemn.

Blaise sits with his hands tied behind his back, a  _Silencio_ that isn't really there cast upon him. He refuses to speak of the fear, instead knowing that Light and Dark will not save them now. He's smart. He always has been.

"She'll be okay," Millicent mutters under her breath, and Daphne holds on to her friends tightly, shaking.

And Pansy realizes, something falling into place. The fifth year student who was tortured is Daphne's sister, Astoria.

"Daphne," she says, quietly, "please believe us. She'll be okay. Right now, you aren't helping her by crying. Please, stay calm. It's okay . . ."

She doesn't know that. How could she? But her voice seems to soothe her friend, and Millicent stares at her over Daphne's head, a thank you she can't say aloud glowing in her eyes.

"Do you . . . do you think someone will save us?" a second year stumbles out.

Pansy and Blaise share a look, but Draco stands up angrily before either of them can say a word.

"If someone was going to save us, they should have stepped forward already," he says savagely. "Dumbledore's dead! Potter's  _fled_. Nobody saves a  _Slytherin_."

And that's when Pansy sees the real fault line along Draco's exterior, and watches as he falls apart, in a way he hasn't managed to yet. Tears glisten in his eyes as he turns away and stalks out of the common room, to goodness knows where.

"He's right," Blaise says, and it's so unexpected that Pansy jumps. "Nobody saves a Slytherin . . . except for a Slytherin," he finishes, a sly smile sliding on to his face. The shaking second year looks up, hopeful, and Blaise faces the child fiercely. "Self-preservation, right?" he whispers, and there's something so gentle in his face that Pansy can hardly breathe, out of fear it will snap.

"Not every Slytherin has that," some objects from behind Pansy.

She turns to face the girl, a sixth year whose hands tremble despite her attempts to hide them. "What do you mean?"

"Well, there are other things a Slytherin possesses, isn't there? Ambition, cunning . . . you know." She shifts on her feet, not meeting anybody's eyes. "Not all of us are going to be able to save ourselves."

"But you forget," Blaise says, "that another trait we all share is  _loyalty._ Oh, understand, it's selective. But we have people we can trust, don't we? And maybe Potter won't save us, but  _I_ won't let my friends die." His gaze sweeps across the students in the room. "I won't let my friends' friends die, either. My trusted housemates, my fellow Slytherins . . . we're in this, well,  _together_."

Pansy stares at the door Draco slipped out of only moments ago. She wonders, vaguely, if she could find him if she tried.

Blaise meets her eyes and offers her a tight smiles, and she understands, just a little bit, that she doesn't need to be the one to offer reassuring words all the time.

She makes her way out of the common room, and after her best friend.

Slipping around corners, cautious as can be, she makes her way up to the seventh floor, where she finds Draco pressed against a wall, sitting in a disturbingly open area.

"Draco?" she asks, not entirely trusting her voice.

He looks up to her, and it's no secret that he's absolutely  _wrecked._  She stifles a gasp, and swallows back a small sob. How could this have happened? What did they do to deserve this?

"I want it gone," he chokes out, scratching at his arm beneath the sleeve of his robe. " _Gone_. It aches all the time. I don't  _want_ it. I  _hate_ everything I stand for." He reaches frantically for a breath, not speaking for a long moment. Pansy sits gently beside him and wraps him in her arms, feeling hollow.

"I didn't—I didn't ask for this." His cheeks are a flaming scarlet. Pansy can feel his tears soaking her robe. She doesn't think she cares, much, anymore.

"None of us did," she whispers, her eyes stinging.

"I want to die," Draco breathes. "I just—don't want to be here. I'm not—I'm not  _okay_. I'm afraid, and I don't know . . . I  _miss_ him."

Who "him" is, Pansy isn't sure. It could be his father, the one who put family before power—the one Draco grew up believing in, loving, aspiring to be—or he could mean Potter. She doesn't  _need_ to know, though. "He'll come back," she says, confident.

Draco stares at her, doubtful, but Pansy doesn't care. She hasn't cared for a long time.

They stay like that until morning, and nobody sees them. That's when Pansy knows, that nobody has really seen them, at all.

* * *

The first snowfall brings a devious Blaise with eyes that burn with something dangerous, yet intoxicating. Pansy finds she can't stop  _looking_ at him, wondering what kind of plan lives in those embers. Those are the sparks of  _rebellion,_ she thinks. Blaise wants to fight.

He finds her after breakfast, grim but determined. "Meet me in the library," he says under his breath. "Bring Draco, too. I have an idea."

She doesn't know when he wants her to meet him in the library, but she suspects he means as soon as she can. So she seeks out Draco, which proves simple enough.

Draco has hardly spoken in the past two months. Christmas is nearing, though, and Pansy hopes that Narcissa can pull him out of this  _shell_ he's retracted himself into. Maybe it's about safety. It's probably about fear. Pansy doesn't have the right to say for certain, of course; it's certainly not her place.

Once, she had thought that maybe falling away from it all would help. But seeing Draco like this, the frustration crawling higher in her chest as the days go by, she thinks she could never force anybody to deal with her in such a state. Or, really, to hurt herself that way.

She's sick of the emotional pain. Physical, she might not mind so much. It would be a welcomed distraction to the mess her mind has become. She has half a mind to go and beg to be put under the Cruciatus again.

Oh, it would be nice, but . . . she pushes the thought away as bile begins to rise in her throat.  _No_ , she tells herself forcefully.  _You can't. Not now_.

"Please, Blaise asked for you, Draco," she says quietly, staring at the empty boy she once knew better than anybody else. "For—us."

His eyes close before he stands and follows her out of Slytherin's common room, to the library. Blaise sits at a table, pouring over a book. Or, Pansy thinks as she narrows her eyes at him,  _pretending_ to pour over a book.

Upon approaching him, she notices that the book is their Charms textbook, and it's open to the first page only.

Blaise looks up, shooting her a winning smile. Draco sits heavily across from his friend and stares blankly at him.

"Right, well, I've been thinking, and the rest of the students, well . . . they have a leader, don't they? Someone who's working to keep their little rebellious actions up, but stay down low as best they can. But, well, they aren't doing a good job, are they?"

"Blaise, please don't tell me—"

"It's Longbottom. Nobody suspects him, because he's incompetent in everybody else's eyes, but . . . he has to be. It has to be a Gryffindor. Potter trusted Longbottom, at least to some extent."

Draco blanches at the mention of Potter, and Pansy marvels in how the look in his eyes is the most emotion she's seen him show in months.

"But, well, Longbttom became somebody  _different._ In fifth year. I noticed it. I know you did, too, Pans."

Pansy nods. "I did. But that doesn't mean we should—"

"He has to take us seriously. It's a war." Blaise turns away from her. "This is the best I can offer my mother. Whatever . . . whatever will keep her safe."

"What if he says something?" Pansy shoots a concerned glance to Draco. "They'll never let us get away with that, Blaise."

Blaise takes a deep breath and his eyes aren't completely focused. "I think I'm willing to risk it."

"I'm not," Pansy says quickly. "If . . . if things work out, let me know. I'll—"

"You're going to be scared either way, Pansy," Blaise whispers. "You might as well  _do_ something. Don't sit back and watch. You  _can't._ We'll fucking  _die_."

"One person can't save the world," Pansy responds stiffly.

"Yet that's what everyone expects of Potter, isn't it?"

Draco pales more than he already is, which, Pansy must say, is a little impressive, "Blaise," he rasps, "I think . . . she's right. I can't put my parents in danger."

"Your parents hurt you," Blaise mutters. "They forced you into getting that Mark, Draco, you can't possibly—"

"Nobody forced anything. It's magic based on at least partial consent, isn't it?"

" _Verbal_ consent, yes, but—"

"Then it was consensual," Draco says coolly, but his voice is still scratchy and his eyes a little bit red.

"Fine," Blaise says, hunching his shoulders slightly. "But . . . I still think it's not a bad idea."

"Just . . . keep us updated, okay?" Pansy screws her eyes shut, and Hermione flashes under her eyelids briefly.

When she opens her eyes again, a single tear falls down her face. It never will be easy, she thinks, and a sad, sorrowful smile befalls her lips.

* * *

Christmas comes and goes, and still Draco remains quiet and withdrawn. Blaise's words the month before seem to have at least reawakened his voice, but he still shies away from touches, from small symbols of affection, no matter if they're deserved or not.

Blaise comes to them at the beginning of January, a frown on his face. A shake of the head shows that he's been denied any kind of trust. A glint in his eyes shows he isn't going to give up anytime soon.

As the days go by, impossibly slow, three more students within Slytherin are put under the Cruciatus. Every night, Draco wakes up crying and Pansy, who can only see Hermione yet never see proper sleep, is always there when he leaves the boys dormitories.

It's a—well, it's a fucked up system. A system of comfort where comfort shouldn't be needed. A system of "I wish I loved someone else" and "We can always pretend" and "But for how long?" A trade of reassurances and anger and maybe something a little bit more than all of that. It's about letting go of emotions, but never letting too many go. Exhaustion pulls at them, now, but every moment leading up to it has been worth it.

Pansy wishes, desperately, that she could hide. And, damn, has she tried, but nothing  _works_. Blaise comes every few weeks with a hopeful report on breaking Longbottom a bit, but Pansy suspects it's all in vain.

January fades to February, and before Pansy knows it it's halfway through March.

And that's when Blaise comes to her, beaming.

"He said yes! He's going to use my help."

"That's wonderful," snaps Draco before Pansy can get a word in. "It's always good to know where your loyalties lie, isn't it?"

"As if you can talk!" Blaise scoffs. "Oh, I hope  _Potter's_ all right!"

"That's different," Draco mutters.

"No, it's not." Blaise takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his face. "It doesn't matter. Just . . . let me do this. Trust me."

"I trust you," Pansy tells him gently. "But  _tell us_ if something happens."

"Of course." His face is grim again, but he says nothing else, instead choosing that moment to walk away.

Pansy thinks that these next few months might just be the most difficult of her life.

* * *

Draco comes back from Easter holidays completely  _changed_. He's brighter. He seems to have some idea of who he is again, and as he explain to Pansy about seeing Potter, Weasley, and Hermione in Malfoy Manner, about the lies he told, about the three of them escaping, Potter stealing Draco's wand. And it's not a  _good_ story—no, not at all. But Draco has a light in his eyes and Pansy can feel some kind of  _joy_ radiating off of him.

The school almost feels a little less Dark with this patch of happiness within it.

But the nightmares don't stop. He still wake up in the night, still calls after something he can't have. Pansy finds that she's anticipating the day that the three Gryffindors return to Hogwarts. She's almost forgotten what colour Hermione's eyes are, although they've been something comforting in her times of need.

_Brown,_ she tells herself.  _They've always been brown. Like chocolate._

But somewhere, she wonders just what kind of chocolate they look like.

Within the next weeks, a lot of things happen. It's the end of April when Pansy witnesses Blaise get struck by  _Crucio_. This, she remembers, is what she feared. She turns her head away, resisting the urge to cry out or to vomit.

He spasms and he screams, but they're silenced by a  _Silencio_ placed there so nobody could ever  _know_. But even if they did, what would they do?  _Nothing_ can be done. Two more months is what everybody thinks. Then, they can at least escape Hogwarts.

But, where is it safer? Inside the school's wards, or away from these people that only wish them harm?

Pansy doesn't know. She thinks she may collapse under the weight of it all.

As Blaise is forced on her, shaking and crying softly, Pansy remembers her own weaknesses. She remembers how she fell in love with bushy hair and brown eyes and absolute intelligence. She thinks that it's a terrible feeling, to be in love like this. She remembers sitting in a chair in the Slytherin common room for four hours and trying to figure out how she could leave.

But there is no escape. She's made her decision. She has to stay— _she has to fight._

* * *

As Blaise heals, May dawns, and with it comes Potter, Weasley, and Hermione. And Pansy has to stop herself from attacking Hermione, from embracing her tightly. They've always been, well,  _enemies_ , in a sense. It would make no sense to show open signs of affection towards someone whom she's always been meant to hate.

Pansy hides. It's what she does best. She tucks herself under a staircase and vaguely hopes it will collapse on top of her.

Some things happened on that day. Things Pansy won't talk about. But when Voldemort was defeated, something new rose from the ashes. A chance to try again, to mend bonds that were never there to begin with.

Then, things begin to unravel before them.

First, Blaise tells them what he did at Hogwarts for those two months. How he directed other students when to act and when to not, on when it protect and when to defend. Longbottom was quick to speak on behalf of Blaise, but more so to defend his actions to his friends. Blaise has not put under a trial. Nor has Pansy. Very few of the Slytherins actually have been. But Draco is.

Potter speaks for Draco, on the way he saved his life, on how his mother saved his life. He speals of the Deathly Hallows, of the Elder Wand and the power Draco possessed, if for a short time.

Afterwards, Draco kisses Potter, and Potter kisses him back.

And Pansy knows she'll be alone. It's been two months, and she aches for something, for that fresh start the end of the war promised. It hasn't come to her, not yet.

Maybe it never will.

Oh, but she hopes it does.

* * *

After everything that happens, Pansy finds she's still cold. She still can't feel something important within her. She still wishes she could get away from it all.

Through Draco, she's gotten an apology to Potter. He's accepted, and Pansy isn't sure how to feel about that. She tried to hand him over to Voldemort, the same man that killed his parents and others he loved.

That was her weakness.

She's moving past it.

The months after fade to a year. Pansy still isn't sure if she's seeing things properly. She feels empty, void of something important, crucial to her life.

And then she sees Hermione.

It's a chance meeting, really. It's Draco, who has clung to Potter—Harry, as he commonly tells her to call him—all year. They've loved each other for a long time, Pansy thinks. They're happy, and Pansy wishes she could be, too.

But she  _isn't_. When she sees Hermione, she cries. She can't help it. It's her and Potter— _Harry—_ and Draco in the little café for lunch, when Harry stands to welcome Hermione. And Draco shoots Pansy a smile. This was planned, oh yes, maybe to cause her pain.

She cries, and she stands up abruptly as the tears flow down her cheeks in little waterfalls. And she runs, because she's a coward. To face those she's wronged . . . she can't  _do it_.

Alarmed looks follow her out the door. She feels  _stupid_ , like she should have seen this coming, like she should have controlled her emotions a little better. Draco whispers something into Harry's ear and he gives a jerky nod. Pansy doesn't see anything else as the door closes behind her.

Leaning against the wall of the building, taking deep breaths, she wants to laugh. This is what she should have expected.

Draco will probably come out now, and it'll be a reminder of the year they don't talk about. This year was going to be better, they said. Yet it's been a little more than a year since the end of the war, and still Pansy is suffering.

The door opens beside her, but it's not Draco. It's Hermione, and she looks unsure, but she offers a small smile to Pansy.

Pansy can't move as Hermione stands in front of her.

"I'm sorry," Pansy says quietly. "I can't . . . make up for what I've done with words, but . . . I thought you should know that I am."

Hermione inhales softly. "Harry seems to think you're trustworthy . . . but I don't know you. You've only ever been cruel to us." She pauses, then shakes her head. "But I heard things when I went back. Things that happened in the walls of Hogwarts last year."

Pansy suddenly feels as though she might throw up, and Hermione nods gravely at her pale face. "I thought, maybe, it was exaggerated. But I don't think it is. So . . . I want to give you a second chance. If you prove this to be a mistake, I'll make sure you don't forget it. For now, though, I'm going to try and trust you."

"No, I don't deserve—"

"The war changed us all," she says softly, deadly. "It changed you, too. I can see it in your eyes. I want to try again."

And as Pansy takes her hand, shakes it, she hears a clock ticking. It sweeps around her, powerful and beautiful, yet deadly in its sound.

This, she thinks, is just the beginning.


	2. Part II: Three Hundred Sixty-Five Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is way longer than intended. for that, i must apologize. because it's twice as long as it was meant to be, which means, well, twice as much angst. and this is going to be a bit of a twist for you, as it was for me i'm sure, how the major character death comes. i didn't quite have the heart to do it as planned, and so this is what happened instead. i do know that this condition is not canonnically real, but what is canon, really, in the face of fic? anyway, i hope you like it, and i am genuinely sorry if you cry. i cried in a few places while writing. also, this is purposefully broken up like this. if you coulnd't tell, this chapter covers roughly one year. i wrote the pieces that needed to be said, and i ask you to fill in the remaining chunks with your own thoughts. this part is about interpretation, i think, more than anything. i really do hope you enjoy, and i'm terribly sorry for how sad it gets at parts.

There’s a point at which a person begins to feel their life, feel the strings attached to them, holding the gently, anchoring them. There comes a time where the strings will fray, and panic will flare in your chest and you’ll _know_ that this is the end, the fall into the abyss. And there’s nothing that can be done.

Hold onto those strings for as long as you can, tightly, for the things we claim dear to us, for _ourselves_. But there’s only so much time before your hands begin to burn and sear and in your pain you’ll forget what had you hanging on at all.

You’ll know, when that point comes. A smile will befall your face, and you’ll stare at what you love most in the world until you can’t see them anymore.

That’s how the story ends.

But this is how it begins.

* * *

Four months ago, Pansy thought things were getting better.

Two months ago, she woke up with pain stabbing through her head, in a way beyond a simple headache.

It hasn’t really gone away. She’s brushed it aside, grown used to it, even. But sometimes, she wakes up and she can’t see. Sometimes it’s nightmares. Sometimes it’s pains.

As the past months have passed by, she’s noticed the pains coming with more and more frequency. It comes now, not only after she’s just woken up, but during the day. Eating a meal, she often has to excuse herself to sit away from people and simply squint her eyes until she can see properly, until it’s completely passed.

Last week, she went to St. Mungo’s.

And that was the day she felt the strings holding her to the ground begin to fray.

* * *

Pansy has had time to fix herself. She’s had time to sit down and revaluate her life, to decide what needed to be changed in order to be happy.

Nothing’s _changed._ She still feels a gaping hole in her chest. In fact, since she talked to the Healers for the first time, she thinks it’s _worse_.

On the outside, though, everything is different.

It starts with Hermione, who now smiles when she sees Pansy. It’s been a struggle to make the friendship work, but now that it is, it’s a wonderful thing. She and Hermione have built bridges to cross the rivers between them. Somewhere down that river was thrown the past. _Some_ of the past.

The rest of it floats lazily through Pansy’s mind. She thinks she can see it in Draco’s eyes, too, but then Harry is there and he remembers the present.

Pansy hasn’t been quite so lucky.

It sits in the front of her mind, a constant dull ache, a throbbing pain, a _Crucio_ that lasted just a little too long; some frayed strings and a ticking clock.

She doesn’t say anything, though. She refuses to. The rest of the people around her had far worse during the war. Hermione had her skin dug into; Draco was forced into having his arm branded with a mark he didn’t wish to have; Harry _died_.

Maybe she’s guilty, more than anything. Maybe she simply feels empty because she _didn’t_ do anything. Maybe she doesn’t deserve to have the happiness everybody else has.

But she’s said sorry. She’s said it so many times that her throat has burned. She’s said it so many times that the words are like a reflex, even when things aren’t her fault. These days, though, it feels like everything is her fault.

By now, people are tired of hearing it. They all blow her off with a roll of the eyes, the occasional scoff. If anything, it makes her feel a little hollower.

She sits in silence, mostly. There’s no need for her to work, not anymore. She’s not sure she could successfully get a job, anyway. Draco tried, and he was turned away quickly simply for the Dark Mark that everybody seems to know is there. Hermione suggested to Pansy that she could attempt to work in the Muggle world, but she adamantly refused. What a reminder, that would be, that her own people do not want her around.

For right now, the silence is all she has.

She hates it.

She hates it _all_. She hates the silence, the feeling of tension crawling over her shoulders, the way her stomach flutters when Hermione smiles at her, the way Draco looks, as if everything is _right_. It’s _not_. It hasn’t been for a long time. It probably never will be. And . . . even if it _does_ become better, Pansy won’t get to see that day.

There are times, where she considers the “could have”s and the “would have”s and maybe even the “should have”s. And, in those moments, she thinks that what she hates more than anything is _herself_.

When she sleeps, her mind replays things she could have done differently. When she wakes up, she can’t make herself breakfast. Sometimes it’s the pain in her head. Sometimes it’s the pain in her mind.

When things seem to be getting bad, she thinks it would be easy. To just . . . _go_. She can’t say she would be completely missed. Draco has Harry, now. Harry is the one who helps him stand when he doesn’t think he can anymore. It’s no longer Pansy’s duty, as his best friend, but Harry’s, as his other half.

They’re in love. Pansy can see it, so easily. And it’s such an amazing, beautiful thing.

But . . . it’s not _hers_. She doesn’t get that. She doesn’t have someone to kiss away her tears.

She wishes she did. But now, it’s probably too late for that. The Healers promised her she would have time, but their eyes didn’t light with the hope that their voices. Besides, she’s lied enough to know when she’s being lied _to_. She’s a Slytherin. She knows the way a mistruth is sewn.

She remembers, perfectly, how the conversation went. A week after, she thinks she can still quote it perfectly.

* * *

She awoke with her head throbbing so much that her first reaction was to throw up. It was still the middle of the night. It never had been bad enough to jerk her from sleep. Tears filled her eyes and her breathing was harsh. She fought to calm herself. After a few minutes, the pain dulled. She cast a quick _Scourgify_ and quickly dressed.

Panic rose in her chest. She didn’t know what was wrong. These weren’t simply headaches. They _couldn’t_ be.

It was quick, the way they rushed her in after she described her symptoms to the clerk. The clerk shook her head and told her to wait while someone was called on to take a look at her.

Maybe it’s the time of day. Surely not many people come to the hospital in the dead of night. But that doesn’t seem _right_. Because as she had walked through the doors, she had seen people bustling around, Healers and patients alike.

Two Healers finally are the ones to come to her. One looks to be a trainee, with wide eyes and a smile laced with trepidation. As she turns around, Pansy gives a short gasp as she recognizes her, and the girl’s eyes calmed quickly.

“Miss Parkinson?” the Healer, a short, mousy-haired woman, asks.

“Yes,” Pansy confirms, and winces. Though it is a bit more subdued, the pain hasn’t quite faded.

“I’m Healer Murray, and this is Trainee Greengrass,” she continues kindly. “We’ll be checking you out today. I’m going to need you to be perfectly honest with me, Miss Parkinson.” Her blue eyes are stern, and Pansy nods.

Daphne offers her a small smile that she can’t quite force herself to return as Healer Murray asks, “Can you describe to me how these pains feel?”

“Well, it’s like somebody’s hit me really hard. In my temples, it’s like . . . like _fire_. It burns and if I so much as try to gently touch it . . . well, I _can’t_ , really.” She takes a deep breath and balled her hands into fists, realizing that they were shaking. “It’s just—pain.” Swallowing thickly, she shake her head and adds in a whisper, “It’s a little bit like the Cruciatus, but simply in my head.”

Healer Murrary looks at her, eyes piercing. “You’ve experienced the Cruciatus, then?” Something in her tone is grave, but Pansy suspects anybody’s would be.

“The year before last.” Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Daphne wince.

“And did you receive the proper medical attention that was needed, Miss Parkinson?”

“I passed out afterwards,” Pansy says quietly. “But I hadn’t moved from where I was. I went back to my dorms after.”

“You said you went to the Hospital Wing!” Daphne blurts, then flushed as Healer Murray gave her an amused look.

“You know each other, then?”

“We were in the same house and year at Hogwarts,” Daphne mutters, sheepish.

Pansy blinks. “Daphne, I _did_. But it was after, wasn’t it? I told Madam Pomfrey I was sore and she gave me a potion. She didn’t ask what it was from, and I didn’t tell her. That would have gotten me into trouble.”

“Pansy . . .” Daphne looks pained, and Healer Murray casts her eyes downward.

“Miss Parkinson, I’d like to ask to do some simple tests on you,” Healer Murrary says. “It would be a few spells only.”

Pansy looks to Daphne, growing worried. “Is something wrong with me, Healer?”

“I can’t say for certain whether or not there is. Do I have your permission to cast these spells?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

Pansy sits very still, her fingers pale and shaking. Healer Murray takes a deep breath and begins muttering incantations and waving her wand in large arcs above Pansy’s head.

“What have you been doing lately, Pansy?” Daphne asks quietly, watching with one eye what Healer Murray does.

The elder Healer stops and turns to look at Pansy’s report. Pansy turns to Daphne, happy for the distraction. “I’ve not been a lot, Daph. Fraternizing with the enemy, as some may say.” She gives a vague smile.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the Gryffindors. Surely you know about Draco—”

“Right, it’s been all over the papers, hasn’t it?” Daphne laughs, but it’s nervous and humourless. “I never would have guessed you two would be the Slytherins that befriended Gryffindors.”

Pansy grins faintly. “It was supposed to remain entirely one-sided.”

“Well, Draco always was pretty transparent when it came to Potter. But, you—I’m a bit surprised, Pans.”

“You think he’s the only one who loved a Gryffindor, Daph?” Pansy’s tone is perhaps too bitter for the small smile she wears.

Daphne doesn’t say anything, and Healer Murray whirls around to face both girls again, her eyes a little cloudy.

“Miss Parkinson, I’ll be blunt with you,” she says, pulling her chair to sit across from Pansy, who tenses up at the words. “What’s going on here isn’t good. At all.”

Pansy swallows and shares a glance with Daphne, who quickly looks down at her feet. “What is it, Healer?”

“The Cruciatus Curse stimulates torture in the brain. Physically, nothing happens to you. But it can lead to brain trauma.” She hesitates. “What I’m seeing with you is a rare aftereffect of the curse. If left untreated, the brain can continue the action of stimulating torture. Though the caster may have taken the curse off of you, its effects remain. Smaller, yes, but still enough to cause damage.

“As time progresses, it can kill. It also becomes ingrained in the brain, and therefore . . . unable to lift.” Healer Murray ducks her head.

Pansy blinks, and her throat goes suddenly dry. “Healer, I’m sorry, I don’t—” She cuts herself off, and glances at her hands, unseeing, horrified.

“Miss Parkinson, there’s only so much we can do. I can attempt to remove it, but there’s no guarantee it will work. It may even wind up lessening your chances for survival.” Healer Murray offers her a watery smile. “You mentioned the curse was two years ago. When, exactly, was it?”

Horror blossoms deep in her chest. “Almost two years ago, now. It was the December. I don’t remember the date.” Those days are always going to be fuzzy, for her. Why remember the worst days, when better ones may be ahead?

She feels a pang in her chest at the thought, but shoves the feeling away.

Healer Murray nods. “The chances of this working are very slim to none. I can attempt to remove the remaining portions of the curse, but it may shorten your lifespan drastically. On the other hand, it _could_ allow you to live without the lingering effects of the curse for as long as that may be.” She pauses. “Please understand, Miss Parkinson, that this is completely your choice.”

“How long will I live, otherwise?” Pansy whispers.

“It’s hard to say. It could be anywhere from six months to ten years. Maybe you’ll wind up finding another means of letting the curse go, and you’ll live another fifty or sixty years. The chances of that are near impossible, but it’s not to say they aren’t possible at all.”

Pansy closes her eyes, and Daphne puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Slowly, she opens them again and nods. “I’d like you to try and remove it, Healer.”

Healer Murray inhales deeply and waves her wand in a z-shape, whispering a simple word that Pansy can’t hear through the roaring of her ears.

Pain shoots through her head immediately, and she resists the urge to scream. That wil only make it worse, won’t it?

Healer Murray is thrown to the floor by the recoil of the spell, and she stands, her face grim.

Pansy sits, quivering and fighting back tears. It aches, badly. And that can’t be the feeling of _success,_ can it? Catching sight of the Healer’s face, she resolves that, no, it absolutely isn’t the feeling of success.

“I’m sorry, Miss Parkinson,” Healer Murray says quietly. “I can’t offer you anything else, other than pain relieving potions. Nothing will slow the process, I’m afraid. If you ever need anything, ask for me at this hospital. I’ll be happy to help you.”

Daphne squeezes her shoulder with pale hands, and Pansy feels her stomach seize up.

This is a new beginning—the beginning to the end.

* * *

Somehow, Pansy has relived the moment more times in the past week than there have been days. Daphne has visited three times. She’s supposed to visit again today, after she gets back from working.

She hasn’t told anybody. Daphne keeps urging her to say something, but she _can’t_. They would treat her like glass, wouldn’t they? And that’s what she _is_. Breakable, and dangerous when broken. She’s always been too sharp around the edges, too cold in the centre.

A knock on the door brings Pansy to its call. It’s too early for Daphne to be here, she thinks vaguely. But who else could it be, if she hasn’t invited anybody?

Opening the door slightly shows her Hermione, who offers a small smile.

Within a few seconds, Hermione is standing in Pansy’s flat, and Pansy feel the sudden urge to cry. She stifles it, and smiles back at Hermione.

“I was going to send you an owl, but I didn’t have much time before I was out of the Ministry today. And, well, I was nearby, so I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t mind, but Daphne—Daphne Greengrass, that is—will be here in about half an hour. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I didn’t know you still talked,” Hermione says, surprised.

Pansy shrugs, sitting at the table across from where Hermione is already seating. “We haven’t in a while, but I saw her at St. Mungo’s the other day, and—” She coughs, realizing her mistake quickly as Hermione narrows her eyes.

“What were you doing at St. Mungo’s?”

“My mother,” Pansy quickly says. “She’s ill.”

“Really? That’s awful. What’s happened?”

Pansy blinks, amazed at Hermione’s genuine tone. She seems to have bought the lie.

“We don’t know just yet,” she says calmly, tracing circles on the table distractedly. “She was feeling faint and wheezy. I imagine it’s simply stress.”

“What’s she got to be stressed out about?” Hermione laughs, and Pansy smirks.

“Goodness knows. That women stresses about what type of flower she should plant next, though she has the money to plant as many as she wants.”

Guilt seizes her by the shoulders and she stands up to calm the sudden stirring of her stomach. The words about her mother aren’t true at all, but Hermione doesn’t know that. It’s easier this way.

“Would you like some tea?” she asks, turning away from Hermione to grab the necessary supplies to make the drink.

“Sure,” Hermione says, and silence wraps around them like a heavy blanket. Once Pansy’s given Hermione a cup filled with the hot liquid, another knock resounds through the flat.

“That must be Daphne,” Pansy says apologetically, rushing to get the door.

This is a mess. A simple mess. She can only pray that Daphne won’t say anything.

Opening the door reveals not one Greengrass, but two. Astoria flashes Pansy a brilliant smile and Pansy feels as though she’s been punched in the gut. The last time Pansy saw Astoria, she was in fifth year and was shaky with her voice and her movements. Now, she stands tall and confident and she looks _radiant_. As if the sun decided to shine solely on her for the rest of times.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, but I thought you and Astoria could talk. I know that you haven’t exactly had the same experience, but I don’t know anybody else who went through the Cruciatus and is willing to talk about it,” Daphne says in a rush. “Of course, she doesn’t have the same issues with it as you, but I thought it might—”

Daphne catches sight of Hermione, then, who is easily spotted behind Pansy, standing somewhere between the table and the door.

“Granger?” Daphne says, surprised.

“Greengrass,” Hermione acknowledges, smooth and chill. “Pansy mentioned you would be here eventually. If you want me to go—”

“No, it’s fine,” Pansy says idly. Her palms are sweating. She offers a smile and steps aside to let the Greengrass sisters inside fully. Closing the door, she follows them into the kitchen, and Hermione continues to eye them warily.

“They aren’t dangerous,” Pansy whispers, but Hermione shakes her head.

“I don’t know them.”

“I do.”

Hermione turns her gaze to Pansy, and something flashes in her eyes, though it fades too quickly for Pansy to tell what it is. “I want to say I trust you, but I don’t think I can when it comes to other people.”

Pansy inhales sharply. Turning away from Hermione, she mutters, “Right. I wouldn’t trust me, either.”

“So, Healer Murray said she thinks I’m doing very well!” Daphne says excitedly, sitting at the table and pulling Astoria in the seat beside her. “She told me I’ll make an excellent Healer, once my training is completed.”

Pansy has heard Daphne gush about Healer Murray every time she’s seen her, and it amuses her to no end. The obvious adoration she feels towards her mentor is a wonderful thing.

“She asked after you, by the way,” Daphne says casually.

Cold dread fills Pansy’s chest. “Did she? You told her I’ve been fine, right? It was nothing to be worried over, anyway, right, Daph?”

Daphne’s eyes narrow at her. “I wouldn’t call it that, no.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing you aren’t a full Healer yet, then, isn’t it?” Pansy snaps.

“At least I know what I’m _talking_ about. Amazingly, you aren’t always right!” Her voice climbs higher with hysteria. “You would feel the same way if it were _me_ , wouldn’t you? You would want me to be _honest_ , to make the best of the days that are left!”

Pansy feels her eyes widen. “Daphne, please, listen to me. It’s not a big deal. It’ll be fine, you know. I’ll be fine.” She looks at Hermione, hoping her eyes look as lost and confused as she wishes them to. Hermione is staring at her in thought, though, completely oblivious to the gaze on her.

“I thought you said it was your mother,” Hermione says quietly. “That she was why you were at St. Mungo’s.”

“It is,” Pansy tells her smoothly. “Daphne just thinks I’m more worried over her than I am.”

“You said she would be okay,” Hermione reminds her.

“She will be. She is. The Healers were just a little worried that it would come back.”

This is a corner, and she’s not invisible here. This corner, this place where Daphne and Hermione have backed her into, with Astoria watching with wide eyes from behind them, is going to be where she winds up failing. She can’t _hide_ here. She can’t hide her own life, her own death.

“You’re lying,” Hermione says matter-of-factly. “I thought you might be, before, but I brushed it off because I figured if it was anything important, you would have already said something.” She shakes her head, her hair flying wildly. “What’s _wrong_?”

Pansy bows her head, her eyes prickling. “It’s nothing. It’s not important.”

“That’s not what it sounds like to me.”

Never in her life has Pansy wanted to run away than right now, but the thought of running and losing Hermione because of her actions races through her head. She’s taken a long time to get here, to reach this place where she _might_ get to be happy. She won’t give that up now.

“Spell damage,” she says softly. “From—from the Cruciatus. They don’t know if it will go away or not.”

“Like—brain damage?” Hermione asks, voice a little shaky.

“Not quite,” Daphne speaks up, and Pansy wipes at her eyes. “Just some lingering effects of the curse. Sudden pains, mostly in the head.”

“Why?”

“Because there are special treatments that need to be given after someone has been hit with the curse. It’s pretty dependant on the person’s original reaction to the curse, too.”

“But she’ll live?”

“Yes,” Pansy says, cutting across Daphne. “I’ll just have to deal with the pain.”

Daphne looks at her, then slowly nods. “It _can_ get bad, but it’s usually not fatal.”

And Hermione’s shoulders slump slightly with the information. Pansy doesn’t feel guilty about it. To save herself, she’ll do what it takes. Right now, it’s the promise that she’ll live, that she’ll get to see the day things get better.

She wishes she could convince herself.

* * *

Another week, and two more lies. This time to Draco and Harry.

Daphne set up a system, so that she and Astoria could see each other every second weekend. Despite the terribleness of last Saturday, once Hermione was gone, Pansy found she greatly enjoyed Astoria’s company. Astoria is still in Hogwarts, though, for this year, and thus can’t be around often. But the castle holds bad memories, and sometimes she doesn’t like to be there for the simple sake of being there. So, she comes home on weekends, and she returns on Sunday afternoon.

Draco didn’t see through her lie. She thinks that he should have. But she won’t deny him his happiness in sake of her suffering.

She doesn’t know how long she has. Healer Murray said anywhere between six months and ten years, but that was before the spell that might have healed her failed.

There are a lot of things to do. She’s going to fix her mistakes before she’s gone. No matter what it takes, no matter where her apologies have to go. She _has_ to fix the things she’s broken, the things that remain in shambles because of some carelessly spoken words in the face of fear. Where cowardice failed her, she’ll have to be brave.

First, she has to face Hermione.

* * *

“I wanted to talk to you,” Pansy says, dragging Hermione away from the table where Harry and Draco bicker over why the food is so terrible, and Blaise and Ron sit uncomfortably across from each other. Blaise has been in Italy for the past three weeks, and now that he’s back he can finally join in on their weekly dinners again.

“What about?” Hermione asks, shifting her exasperated gaze away from the boys and to Pansy.

“Well, I’ve been thinking, and I—well, I want to be upfront with you, Hermione.” Her fingers shake slightly. Bravery, bravery—she’s not _brave_ , no matter how much she may wish to be. “Well, since Hogwarts, I mean, every time I saw you, I—I don’t . . .” She takes a deep breath and clenches her hands into fists before staring directly into Hermione’s eyes. “There was always something _there_. You’ve always been so—so _attractive_ , and I, well, I was just pulled in.”

“Attractive?” Hermione repeats, blinking. “Pansy, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I always thought of it as fire on a cold day,” Pansy tries again. “Warm and welcoming but maybe a little scary, and you just want to be _close_.”

“You are close, though,” Hermione points out, her mouth twisted into a confused frown. “I thought we were friends.”

“No, I mean . . . in a different way.” Frustrated, Pansy runs a hand through her hair. “Look, I didn’t _mean_ to fall in love with you. I was never supposed to love anybody. That’s not good self-preservation, but—”

Hermione bursts into a large smile suddenly, and Pansy stumbles on her feet at it.

“Why are you smiling?” she asks, shifting on her feet.

“If you love me,” Hermione says, “you should have just said.”

And the movement is quick, swift, an arm around the shoulder and a sudden pressure on her lips, and something in Pansy’s chest bursts. These are the flames she meant, trailing down her skin as something snaps inside her, and she feels it now, that shining gold sun that she always thought she would never see. And this, she knows, is love.

Hermione pulls away, and her smile is still in place. “These last few months have been some of the best of my life, you know. A time to heal. I’ve been vulnerable, in a way I don’t think I ever have been.”

“I don’t get it,” Pansy struggles to say. “I never would have _guessed_. You always treated me like a friend, or a sister, or—”

“No, I didn’t! Look, I think you’ve changed a lot. I have, too. There are things I can’t explain anymore, and I think this is just . . . one of those things. I’ve been listening, where I once would have spoken, and I filled in the gaps with something—something _bigger_ than words. I’ve never fallen in love like _this_.”

“Hermione . . .”

“If you don’t believe me, give me time to prove it. I promise you I _can_.”

Pansy inhales, then nods.

Her lips burn and Hermione gives her a small smile, and she thinks that maybe, _maybe_ this is her chance.

* * *

“How does it feel?” Astoria asks quietly.

“What do you mean?”

Astoria takes a sip of her tea and leans forward across the table. The Muggle café they’re in is crowded, and Pansy’s having a difficult time hearing at all. “To know you’ll be gone soon.”

Pansy smiles ruefully and taps her fingers gently against the table. “Like a dream, kind of. Well”—she gives a mirthless laugh—“more like a nightmare. But it’s just a weird sensation. Sometimes I wake up, and I remember that I _won’t_ make it, and that just feels _awful_ , like some dead weight on my chest. Other times, I can ignore it, pretend like it’ll be okay. And it _might_ be, but . . .”

“I think I understand, a little,” Astoria says kindly. “I thought I was going to die, every day I woke up in fifth year. Some days I wished I wouldn’t wake up at all.” Her eyes grow a little misty, and she sets down her drink slowly. “It was like I was already dead, sometimes, anyway.”

“No feeling,” Pansy whispers. “A hole in your chest.”

Astoria nods. “Then I almost _did_ die. Or, at least, lose my sense of being. And that’s when I figured I should fight.” She searches Pansys’s face for a moment. “Are you fighting?”

“I don’t think I know how,” Pansy mutters. “I’ve never _had_ to fight.”

“No, I think you _did_ fight, at Hogwarts. People just remember the girl who was too tired to _continue_ fighting. I remember the girl who smiled and told my sister things would be okay, even in the face of fear. I think _that’s_ what it means to fight.”

“I don’t know,” Pansy says, sighing. “I don’t think that’s right, Astoria.”

“No, I don’t think you would. But . . . give it some thought, at least. I think that if you’re ever going to fight again, it needs to be now.”

Pansy doesn’t say anything, but her mind reels. Fight, that’s what brave people do. She’s always wished to be brave. But she _isn’t_. When it comes down to it, she shakes and she grows afraid, and that’s the farthest thing from bravery she could ever think of.

No, she’s not brave.

But she can pretend.

* * *

It’s late at night, when the sky is clear, when the pain hits her somewhere new. It’s nearly three month since she first saw Healer Murray, and since then she’s only had to go back four times because of the pain in her head.

She gasps, sitting up suddenly. Beside her is Hermione, who is reading a book on Dark spells that she borrowed from Draco a few months ago. Why she wants to read up on Dark magic is a mystery to Pansy, but she’s been reading the book recently with almost some kind of curiosity lighting up her eyes.

Hermione closes the book and is there in an instant, and Pansy hates it. How fast Hermione is to drop something to be there, how concern clouds that light in her eyes that Pansy loves.

“I’m fine,” she snaps, then winces.

“You’re not _fine_ ,” Hermione says. “What’s wrong? Is it your head?”

“No,” Pansy mutters. “My stomach. It was just a pain. I’m okay.”

But it’s still there, sharp as needles and she feels hot, flushed, as if she could just fall at any moment. Her vision is black on the sides. Perhaps it’s pain. She doesn’t want to linger on it for long, either way.

“Are you—?”

“I’m sure.”

Silence is the only answer, and through it Hermione shrugs and turns back to her book. Pansy’s breathing feels harsh, and the darkness around her eyes is only growing. Beginning to panic, she closes her eyes tightly. If it could just go away . . . and it does.

A tear slips down her cheek, and she wonders if this is what it feels like to lean over the abyss.

* * *

Hermione comes by every day, and they sit in silence for the most part. There’s nothing to say, but there’s some kind of comfort in the other’s presence. Pansy is starting to think that maybe she hasn’t paid close enough attention. Hermione has always been anger and raging fire with her friends, but when it’s been just them, it’s something subdued and simple and _easy_. Maybe this is how Hermione loves, in a far different way than Pansy does.

Often, in the past three weeks, Pansy’s woken up, unable to move. She’s had to return to St. Mungo’s seven times since the pains first started. The last time she was there, Healer Murray told her that she should start looking into writing out a will, just in case.

Pansy doesn’t really want to think about that.

So, she sits here and watches Hermione read. Every week, it’s new book. She sips tea and sometimes catches Pansy looking and blushes.

These are the times when Pansy considers what she might want to put into a will. She wonders who will miss her, who will want the small things she’s kept throughout the years.

Today, Hermione is drinking hot cocoa, a switch from her usual drink, and is reading a fiction book. Something is different about today, Pansy thinks, but she can’t see anything besides Hermione’s new reading material and choice of beverage.

Finally, she puts her finger on it, when Hermione closes her book and lets out an agitated sigh.

It’s the look on her face, something fierce and angry yet disturbingly calm. A flame flickering gravely in her eyes and a shaking hand as she flipped pages.

“What’s up with you today?” Pansy asks, amused.

“I _hate_ the Auror Department! They think they can do whatever they want in the Ministry just because they’re _Aurors_!” she explodes, and Pansy smiles fondly.

Maybe it’s ten minutes, maybe it’s ten second, maybe it’s an hour—however long it is that Pansy listens to Hermione go on about the Aurors, she doesn’t know. But in that moment, something fills her chest, and she puts her hand on Hermione’s cheek, leaning forward to touch their lips.

Hermione’s lips part in obvious surprise, but she quickly wraps an arm around Pansy’s waist in response, the other drifting up to her hair. It’s sweet and it’s hot and it euphoric and these are the sparks Pansy knew would be there, so much brighter, bigger, than she ever could have imagined they would be. So much more than the last time they kissed. These are fireworks, exploding with confidence and clarity and _this_ is the moment she’s always needed, always wanted.

The ice on her fingertips melts slowly, and everything is warm, filled with gold. She can’t see stars, exactly, but somewhere behind her eyes, the sun is shining.

The clocking behind her is ticking, the strings holding her shoulders frayed. But, right here, right now, she can ignore it.

And that’s exactly what she does.

* * *

“I didn’t think we could ever really be happy,” Draco says.

Pansy hands him a cup of tea across the table and frowns. Her head is pounding, but the potions haven’t helped it at all this past week or so. By now, it’s almost as natural as breathing, though, simple and easy to cast aside and forget about, until it gets too bad to ignore.

“That we didn’t deserve it,” Draco continues, giving her a small smile in return for the drink. “I didn’t think I could be forgiven. I didn’t realize I’d changed.”

“Do you feel like you deserve it now?”

Draco considers Pansy, lips twisted in that way he always did when he was thinking. Then, he nodded. “I think I might. Maybe not _completely_ , but, then, I don’t think _anybody_ completely does. It’s not about deserving or not deserving, anyway. Good people don’t always get the happiness they do deserve.” He smile turns a little sad, and Pansy thinks that he’s talking about Harry, who she doesn’t think gets a full night of sleep without the help of potions. Nightmares, she guesses, but it’s not exactly her place to say.

“And bad people don’t always get the bad things they deserve?”

And there’s something bitter in her voice that she can’t keep out, that forces Draco’s head up sharply. Tears spring into her eyes, and the sudden thought that maybe there’s something wrong with her, to cry over some simple words, crosses her mind.

“Pans, what happened?” Draco says. “I thought you were happy.”

“I _am_ happy,” she protests feebly, blinking in an attempt to keep her tears back. But one falls, anyway, and hits the table with a splash so quiet that she can’t even hear it.

“Then why are you crying?”

She counts the seconds, to keep the words on the end of her tongue from falling off. But when she hits thirty-two, they start tumbling out.

“I told you about—about the lingering effects of the Curciatus. And that was _true,_ to a point. I didn’t lie about it at all. I just . . . didn’t tell the whole truth.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “The Healer said that it was slowly killing me. That the remaining effects of the curse wouldn’t cause, say, insanity, but had the potential to kill me eventually. Well, I wouldn’t say _potential to_. It will kill me, one day.

“She tried a spell that might have taken it away, but it only made it worse, and she said before I might have had up to ten years, but now I’m not so sure. I think it’s getting worse, you know? I used to feel it in only my head, but now when I wake up, sometimes my arms and legs sear, and sometimes it hurts so much that I throw up, and I kind of—”

“You’re dying?” Draco whispers, his eyes suddenly hollow. Pansy’s eyes are misted, tears she didn’t feel falling coating her cheeks. Slowly, she nods, and Draco is there in an instant, by her side, and she thinks that this is all wrong, that she should be the one comforting _him_. But she falls into his arms, and she lets herself cry.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Draco asks, raspy and _sad_ , and Pansy feels herself shaking.

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

Draco says something in a shocked voice, and she just nods along with it and clings to him more tightly. Oh, she knows by now that it matters. It matters, because she’ll never get to see Hermione smile again, never get to feel the sun bursting forth in her chest and her eyes and to feel her icy barriers melting away. It matters because she’ll never see her best friend smile and fall in love every single day with a boy with messy hair and green eyes ever again. Because she’ll never get to see her own smile in the mirror, happy simply because she _can_ be.

It matters, because she’ll stop falling, and the strings will snap, and the clock will stop ticking.

And everything will disappear.

* * *

Another two weeks has Pansy back at St. Mungo’s, doubled over in pain.

“There’s not anything I can do for you, Miss Parkinson,” Healer Murray says gently. “If the potions aren’t helping—”

“Isn’t there anything _stronger_?” Pansy hisses, and Daphne flinches from her mentor’s side.

“Well, yes, but I wouldn’t say it’s safe for continual ingestion.” Healer Murray looks nervous, stepping from one foot to another. “Nor would I say is upping your current dosage of this potion.”

“I don’t care about safe,” Pansy gasps out. “I’m going to die, anyway, aren’t I?”

Healer Murray coughs, and Daphne noticeably flinches. Panst bites back the sudden desire to laugh.

“Well, I suppose if this is how you wish it, Miss Parkinson, I must give to you.” Healer Murray shakes her head sadly, and she walks out of the room, leaving Pansy and Daphne alone.

“You still have a lot of time!” Daphne exclaims. “You could live the rest of our life, for all—”

“I’m not going to,” Pansy says quietly, wincing at the pain it causes. “You know that just as well as I do.”

“Nobody knows anything!” Daphne shrieks, and Pansy is startled by the intensity of her voice, the hysterical light in her eyes. “This is _rare_ , Pansy, there’s no proof you’re going to die at all!”

“There’s no proof I’m not,” Pansy says quietly, looking up at Daphne with interest.

“You can’t just—take it like _nothing_. You have to feel _something_ , Pansy! You can’t be stone-cold about everything!”

Pansy feels herself tense up. Has she been cold about it? She thinks that she hasn’t, but maybe it’s in her nature. To self-preserve, to hide.

And it hits her, like a sudden slap to the face. She’s been _hiding._ This whole time, she’s been hiding. She told herself, a long time ago, that she wouldn’t hide anymore, that all it’s done is hurt her. Yet that’s all she’s done since she first found out about what was going on.

She said she would face it. She _hasn’t_.

“It’s just _easier_ ,” Pansy mutters, hunching her shoulders slightly. “To not—think of it as a gamble, and to know that there’s an end I can anticipate and plan for.”

“So you need to hide it?”

Pansy inhales deeply, pushing down that pain of it. “It’s easier to pretend nothing’s happening if nobody else knows.”

“They won’t treat you any differently.”

“They already do.”

Healer Murray comes back before Daphne can get another word in, and she offers Pansy a vial of potion and a small piece of parchment.

“Take it as instructed,” she says gently. “Anything more than it says most likely will kill you.”

“Right,” Pansy murmurs, feeling faint. “Thank you, Healer.”

Daphne turns around, but not before Pansy sees the tears swimming in her eyes.

The clock begins to tick a little bit louder.

* * *

Another month, and still Pansy can’t force herself to say the words she needs to. She’s talked to Draco, opened up about her fears the same way he opened up to her during their seventh year at Hogwarts. She’s told Astoria about her nightmares and the way she can’t feel anything but pain anymore, in her head and her stomach and her legs and her arms. How she sometimes can’t use her hands, how they begin to tremble violently and she’ll have to stop what she’s doing to sit down before she dissolves into pure _pain_.

Hermione may as well live with her at this point, and Pansy thinks she has to see right through her lies every time she says she’s okay, but Hermione hasn’t said anything. And Pansy has never been more grateful for anything.

Harry and Draco come over almost daily, now. Pansy wonders if Draco is worried. She’s beginning to fear he is.

She and Harry have never known each other that well. She knows a lot about him, of course. Maybe a few things she never would have otherwise asked to know, but knows nonetheless. But she’s amazed to find that they get along greatly while Hermione and Draco talk about all the things that Pansy has never found interesting and that Harry insists “Draco never shuts about.”

In this past month, she’s found a good friend in Harry.

Once a week, Ron and Blaise come by, and ever since they established the weekly dinners together last year, they’ve become close friends, and Pansy finds that she’s missed Blaise. She sees him so little, and whenever she does see him, he’s always with Ron. Who, really, isn’t _bad_ , but Pansy can’t find it in herself to get along with him. She suspects Draco has to put up with him often, but he never ceases to take an opportunity to poke fun at something. Never anything that would hurt. Pansy doesn’t think he _could_ say something barbed and sharp and cutting, but he always has a new comment for Ron’s robes or the state of his hair (which is almost always rivalled with a “Look at Harry!”)

Pansy and Hermione have had someone over almost every day lately, and once they’re alone, there’s time to make up for the time Pansy does have. She’ll never say that, she doesn’t think, but it’s easy to lose herself in Hermione and forget that she doesn’t have forever to look at Hermione, to see her smile, and to feel burning lips on cold skin.

Weekly dinners switch setting every Tuesday. From Draco and Harry’s place, to Pansy’s flat, to Blaise’s flat, and back again. Ron and Hermione always complain that their homes are never in the proper conditions to have company over, and nobody ever argues. They both live alone and work full-time jobs. Nobody expects them to have to cook, either.

Right now, Blaise is talking about his plans for the future, and Pansy’s stomach is twisting, and Draco won’t stop _looking_ at her. Blaise is excited, speaking of something big, something covered in gold and shining like the brightest of fires.

Pansy screws her eyes shut, and prays that she won’t begin sobbing. The tears sting at her eyes, sharp and dangerous and a reminder that this is what’s become of her.

Before she knows it, she’s yelling.

“Stop it!” she cries, and as soon as the words escape her mouth, she wants to take them back.

“Pansy, what are you so angry about?” Blaise asks, raising an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware my future was anything to be too upset over.”

She can’t stop herself from crying, then, and she stands up, shaky on her legs. “Just . . . give me a minute, all right?”

“Tell them,” says Draco quietly. “They deserve to know, Pans.”

Pansy freezes, and Hermione stares at her, horrified, something dawned on her face that isn’t quite realization.

“If you don’t, I will,” Draco tells her. “And they would want to hear it from you.”

She sniffs and sits back down heavily. It takes some time to compose herself, to get the tears to stop falling.

“I’m dying,” she explains, voice soft yet hoarse. “I—I mentioned the aftereffects of the _Crucio_ , once, but I told you that I would be okay, but . . .”

“You _lied_ to me, about this?” Hermione stares at her, eyes filled with fire and steel.

Pansy winces. “Hermione, I thought—”

“You thought it would be okay? You thought it would be fine, if I woke up one day and you were _dead_? You thought what, Pansy? That I wouldn’t care?”

Pansy feels her eyes growing wet again, and she shakes her head. “No, Hermione, I—”

“I should have _known_. People don’t really change, do they? Especially not liars and cowards! They just get better at hiding the fact that they’re liars and cowards, and they hide behind a mask of good because that’s what’s _easy_!”

Pansy can’t speak. Her throat is closed off, her cheeks wet with tears. Even if she could say anything, she doesn’t think she could deny these words.

“Hermione!” Harry says, clearly shocked at her words.

She snarls at him, and turns and stalks away. Before long, a door slams and Pansy knows she’s gone outside.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Blaise asks quietly.

“Because I thought you would leave,” Pansy whispers back, her stomach knotted and her back cold.

“I didn’t leave,” Draco reminds her.

“Hermione did,” she says, looking to the place where Hermione just left.

“Hermione’s known to overreact,” Ron tells her with a fond yet sad smile. “Trust me, I’ve definitely felt her wrath.”

“You deserved it most of the time,” Harry mutters, and Ron scowls.

Pansy smiles a little, but she can’t stop thinking that maybe she _didn’t_ overreact. She had a right to know, and when Pansy didn’t tell her, she violated that right.

“So, what happens next, then?” Blaise asks her, taking her hand gently across the table.

“I don’t know.” The answer is honest. “For all I know, I could wind up not seeing the beginning of summer.”

“How bad is it?” This question comes from Harry, and she lets out a small breath that quickly turns into a breathy, mirthless laugh.

“Worse than it was.”

It’s silent, and she can feel the strings on her shoulder snapping, hear the clock ticking, perhaps a little bit faster. She can feel herself falling, nearing a darker place, that lonely abyss they call death.

“I need to find her,” Pansy says, hardly even realizing she has.

Draco nods absently, and Harry smiles at her.

“I expect she hasn’t gone far. She hates Apparation. She wouldn’t use it, even if she were truly angry.”

Ron looks up at her as she stands, and his eyes are sincere as he says, “Good luck.”

And she thinks she’s going to need it.

* * *

The fact remains that she hurt Hermione, whether she wants to say it not. She has, and something coils unhappily in her stomach at the thought. She needs to fix it, somehow.

She finds Hermione outside, walking back and forth in agitation.

“You should sleep,” Pansy says quietly.

Hermione whirls around, her lips twisted in a way that makes Pansy’s throat dry up. “You think I’m tired?”

“I think you’re stressed,” Pansy corrects. “And I think it’s entirely my fault.”

Hermione shakes her head and turns to resume her pacing.

“I can fix this,” Pansy tells her, desperation rising and clawing at her chest. “Just—give me time. Please. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth, I just . . .”

She chokes down the words as a sob escapes her throat, and Hermione turns to face her. She can feel her tears slipping down her face quickly. “I didn’t want to face the possibility. I like pretending, to feel—to feel like I have _time_ , like every time I see you might not be the _last time_ , like I _will_ wake up tomorrow, and I’ll find happiness and love the world—love _myself_. But I _don’t_ get to _have_ those things. I have to pretend, and lie, and—and _make everything up_. I just wanted to feel like I had a chance, like—”

She can’t say another word as Hermione comes forward, bringing shaky hands around her neck, and pushes her lips against Pansy’s.

It’s a salty taste, and Pansy understands in that moment that she’s not the only one who’s crying. Hermione pulls away slowly, and she collapses into sobs.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she whispers, and Pansy hears something broken in her voice, and guilt clutches at her chest. “I thought that—that it would be _okay_. But it’s not, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Live in the moment,” Pansy whispers, holding on as tightly as she can. She doesn’t want to let Hermione go. Not yet. “It’s going to hurt, but it doesn’t have to hurt right now, does it?”

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” Hermione says quietly. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to live without you.”

And maybe they sit outside for hours, or maybe it’s minutes, but Pansy can see the stars above her and she can feel the tears on her cheeks. And, fuck, it’s _never_ going to be okay. But right now, in this moment, she can hear Hermione’s heart beating gently, thumping in perfect time with her, and maybe, for right now, that’s enough.

* * *

The road to repair a broken heart is a long, exhausting trip. To build up dams where the river leaked through, to place bandages over a deep gash. It’s long, and it’s about renewal, but it’s _hard_.

Two more months brings Pansy breaking down every second day and Hermione trying to sew together the edges they broke. Once, Pansy walked into the kitchen to find Hermione in tears, throwing teacups at the wall. When she saw Pansy, she dropped the china in her hand and simply _cried_.

Pansy can hardly get out of bed anymore, weighed down by such pain swirling through her body. Sometimes she genuinely _can’t_ get out of bed. On these days, Hermione send everybody who wants to visit away with a snarl and they come back again tomorrow with nervous looks at her.

It’s all different. Nothing could probably actually be the same. Daphne and Astoria are sympathetic, Harry and Draco cast gazes of worry towards Pansy if something small is said. Blaise and Ron try to keep the air light when it’s already heavy enough to drown in.

And Pansy is drowning.

Her shoulders and her hands ache from holding onto the strings, her ears buzz with the sound of the clock, her breath catches with the sudden feeling of falling. This is how it ends, she thinks, with glances of fear and worry and snarls and biting words and a pat on her arm and an “I’m sorry it had to be this way.” This isn’t living, but merely existing.

She thinks that when everything fades, she might only be remembered for a piece of paper with some instructions on what to do with the things she held dear. She’s _scared_ , that everything about her will fade when her life goes, and that Hermione won’t remember what colour her eyes are, and that Draco won’t remember how her embrace feels after a particularly awful dream.

Oh, she’s scared.

But there’s nothing left that can be done.

* * *

“When you kiss me, what do you feel?” Pansy asks quietly. She swirls a spoon around her coffee, which she hated three months ago but now finds she quite enjoys, and stares down at the small whirlpool it makes.

“Whole. Complete. Like something inside me is clicking. Like a puzzle, almost.”

Pansy smiles softly. “I feel explosions, like little pieces of sunshine falling from the sky and into me.”

Hermione doesn’t say anything else, but she smiles, and closes her eyes, and this is close to contentedness.

* * *

Astoria, Daphne, Blaise, Draco, and Millicent sit awkwardly at Pansy’s table. It’s been a long time since they’ve all seen each other, but Pansy asked, and while Tracey and Theo couldn’t make it on this day, they had dropped by two days prior and said good-bye.

Good-bye, that’s what it was. Not in words, no, but in the way that they communicate, with small, nervous laughter and the “I haven’t seen you in ages! How’s that Healer training going?” It’s a small thing, but it’s a bridge that Pansy needs to see crossed before she can rest happily.

“I’m sorry, you know,” Millicent says, and Pansy jumps. “I wish I would’ve come to you sooner. I’ve almost missed having you around.”

Pansy smiles. “What, to hear me complaining about everything? Milly, please, I was a drama queen.”

“You know, I normally would have hexed you for calling me Milly, but I find I don’t quite have the heart to hex you after it’s been so long.”

“You don’t deny I was a drama queen.”

“Nothing to deny about that.” She laughs, and Pansy is reminded that she and Millicent once were close friends, and maybe, to some degree, they still are.

But seeing her now, it doesn’t feel like before. It never will, she thinks. This is a new age, and she’s gotten to see the beginning of it, to see the seeds that fall to the soil. And she’s about to become the rain, to make it all grow.

* * *

The next month is the hardest one yet. Pain flares in her body with a simple movement. The enhanced potions have long since stopped working.

She kisses Hermione good-bye in the morning, and watches her go to work. It becomes a cycle, and there’s always some kind of relief in Hermione’s eyes when she comes home and sees Pansy is still breathing.

Today, when Hermione leaves, Pansy leaves about an hour later, and makes her way back to St. Mungo’s. For what she hopes will be the last time.

“Miss Parkinson!” Healer Murray says, shock lacing her tone, upon seeing her. “Are you all right? You look quite ill.”

“I don’t think it will be long, Healer.” She smiles sadly. “But it hurts. I don’t want to go to see the end. I feel like I’ve suffered enough.”

“The potions?”

“No longer effective.”

Healer Murray says nothing for a moment, then nods. “But you have some left?”

“I do.”

“That will be effective, in overdose. Slow, painless. Certainly the easiest.” She takes a deep breath. “Miss Parkinson, I’m sorry. I wish I could offer to try something else, but there’s nothing left that I can do for you.”

“No, you’ve helped me a lot, Healer.” Pansy coughs, and she shakes her head slowly. “I would say I owe you a lot”—she smiles wryly—“but I don’t think I could quite pay you back.”

Healer Murray swallows, and surprises Pansy by reaching forward and hugging her.

“It’s been good to know you, Miss Parkinson. I don’t think I could ever quite forget you.”

Pansy’s chest swells, and she’s suddenly crying. Healer Murray offers her a soft, soothing voice, and she lets herself drown in the dark ocean tide crashing down on her.

* * *

Pansy can’t do it. She _can’t_. It’s been a week, and she burns everywhere. Moving slightly brings tears to her eyes and draws a gasp out of her mouth. Hermione’s taken time off of work to help her to eat and move when necessary.

“I love you,” she whispers one day. “I’ve loved you for years. Since Hogwarts.”

Hermione tenses up and stares at her. Then she gives a small smile. “I love you, too.”

“I already miss you, sometimes.”

“I’m right here, Pansy. I won’t leave you.”

Everything feels slow, and the ticking of the clock seems to take hours to reach her ears. She holds Hermione’s hand tightly, and says, as confident as she can, “I know.”

* * *

Another week, and this time she talks to people individually. She tells Draco she loves him, and that she’s glad he’s happy. She tells him he deserves it and he smiles and says, “I know I do.”

She tells Harry thank you. She tells him to stay safe and make sure Draco never forgets that he deserves what he has, that happiness is the gift the world has given to him.

She tells Blaise she wishes she could have been like him, brave enough to stand by the ones he should have called in enemy in the face of justice, strong enough to withstand the _Crucio_ and manage to heal from it and go on to be happy and healthy.

She tells Daphne that she deserves everything in the world, that she’s going to be a great Healer, that she’s smart and she’s pretty and she’s worth it. Daphne hugs her, and Pansy tells her that she can hold the stars, if that’s what she wants.

She tells Astoria that she’s sorry. She’s sorry she couldn’t have known her before all this, sorry that Astoria had to suffer the Cruciatus at such a young age. Sorry that this is all happening so fast, and Astoria tells her to shut up and promises that she’ll never forget the girl who was brave enough to stand tall, even when the world crashed down around her.

And Hermione . . . she tells Hermione everything. She tells her the secrets she kept, the vile thoughts that raced through her mind about other people, the way her mother taught her to be ice, how Hermione burned that barrier away. About how she was scared, and she didn’t know who to trust. About how she couldn’t be brave, about how she could never be brave. How she wished to have fire in her eyes and to be someone strong, but _wasn’t_. How, in the end, she shattered, and now she’s broken, like little shards of glass.

Hermione tells her that she loves her, and she kisses her one last time, and these are more than explosions. Pansy understands, then, what Hermione meant when she said she felt whole when she kissed Pansy.

* * *

When the strings snap, Pansy lets out a silent scream.

This is the beginning of her descent into pure darkness, grabbing at her, wrapping around her, filling her up with cold.

Somewhere far away, a clock ticks.

She counts sixteen ticks before it begins to slow. She can no longer see. Her fingers are numb.

There’s nothing left, but the gentle _tick, tick, tick_.

And before she can begin to count them again, the breath is stolen from her body. The darkness overwhelms her, coming down like a heavy tide.

And that’s the moment, when it all fades away, that the clock finally stops.


	3. Part III: The Days After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can say, with absolute certainty, that this is one the most difficult things i've ever written. i don't know why, but it was just really hard to do. this part continues to use my love of symbolism and metaphors, and i sincerely hope you enjoy it. i think it's significantly happier than the others, although it does have it's moments where it's not quite so happy. but the ending of it, i can say, is definitely a lot more joyful than the last part, at least. this one's about hermione catching her footing again. or, well, losing her footing, and then catching it. i hope you like it, and without further ado, i give you the third, and final, part of this fic!

There’s a melody in every person’s head, of past loves and soulmates and best friends; of despair and kindness and compassion, all mingled into one sound. It’s a beautiful sound, of life and of death and of _love_.

Heartbreak is a gentle way of describing the shattering of a soul, the stealing of happiness. It’s inevitable, coming down with a force like ocean waves. It aches and it tears and it destroys.

It’s the end of the song, but the beginning to something different.

After all, when one door closes, another will almost always open.

Sometimes, it’s painted a new colour. But, it can be said, that things change in the most peculiar of ways.

* * *

Nobody has told her to move on, to stop grieving. She thinks they might have, if they weren’t afraid of what her reaction might be.

The thing is, is that Hermione knows, has known for a long time, that she can’t continue like this. It’s been one month. In that time, she’s had time to remember the things she almost wishes she could forget, and time to grieve and time to grow happy again. It hasn’t _happened_. She still holds a job at the Ministry, and they keep telling her that she can take her time, that they’ll welcome her back when she’s ready, and she’ll remain in the same position. But that hardly seems fair, to fall down and not have to climb the ladder again.

There’s something that doesn’t appeal to her about working, though. She’s completely all right with never having to get a job again. Before, there was an order to things. Now, everything is ruined, anyway.

She’s living with Harry and Draco right now, and sometimes she hears them fighting, and Hermione thinks that they’re suffering, too. Nobody says anything, and otherwise everything between the three of them is steady.

But she feels like she’s done something _wrong_. Like she’s forced herself her and forced her own grief and guilt on to them, in some attempt to feel less pain.

She wakes up in the night and shakes and cries and she thinks that she would be happier if she were dead, too. Just when things were getting better, and everything fell apart.

It all starts with her parents, really, whom she hasn’t talked to in so long. She lifted the memory charm as best she could, but there were some . . . permanent effects that she couldn’t quite diminish completely.

This, in a sense, is similar to the lingering portions of the Cruciatus curse in Pansy. The ones that had killed her. The ones that had brought this all up.

She takes a deep breath and focuses on her magic, which she’s tempted to release, just to see things break. She had done that, before, right after Pansy had gone. She had sat there, on the floor of their old kitchen and cried, and her magic had branched out in anger, and glasses and plates and cups shattered, but she didn’t care— _couldn’t_ care.

Harry found her, curled up on the floor and shaking with sobs. They don’t talk about that. Hermione’s _glad_ , of course, but she always thinks that it’s one of the most important things in her life right now, that it needs to be addressed. It’s just . . . she doesn’t _want_ to address it. She certainly won’t being saying anything about it.

For right now, she watches the days go by her in a blur. Oh, maybe she will get better, but, right now, she isn’t okay.

Some part of her probably never will be.

* * *

“What do you dream about?”

Hermione jumps, and looks up to see Draco staring at her across the table.

“I don’t dream.”

He considers this, then shakes his head slowly. “Everybody dreams. Whether it’s when they’re awake or when they’re not. It’s just a _human_ thing, something that can’t be controlled.”

“I’m empty,” Hermione says softly. “I don’t _have_ dreams. I stare at stars and I wonder why none of them fall and I look at flames and wish they would burn within _me_.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets her eyes fall back to her hands. “I’m—existing. That’s all.”

It’s silent for a moment, then Draco’s voice breaks through, thick and heavy. “Did she ever tell you? What we went through that year?”

“She did, right before—” She cuts herself off, feeling herself go rigid. “Yes,” she amends. “She did.”

Draco nods absently. “She was like this, too, you know. Caught up in fear and grief and _disgust_ —at herself, at all the things she _could have_ done, could have _been_. And she didn’t worry about herself enough.” His voice is quiet now, twisting with emotions. “That was my mistake.”

Hermione feels a surge of anger burst inside of her chest. “What, and you think you’re the only one who made mistakes? As if it was only you who could have saved her?” She laughs, and the sound makes Draco flinch, but she doesn’t _care_. Wind sweeps around her, and she thinks her magic has leaked from her body. But the words keep pouring out, a flood of bitter resentment and _hatred_ —not for Draco, not for Pansy, but for _herself_.

“Maybe it’s not your fault at all! Maybe it _is_. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s fucking _dead_.” Her breathing is harsh. She cannot stop herself from speaking. “She _dead_ , and maybe it’s your fault. Maybe it’s not. But that doesn’t change the fact that I let her _hurt_ me! That you let her hurt you, and that everybody else let her hurt _them_! _Maybe_ if none of this had happened, then I wouldn’t feel like this now! Maybe if I hadn’t ever forgiven her, I wouldn’t be _stuck here like this_!” Her voice has risen with hysteria, her voice rubbed raw.

A sob rises slowly in her throat, and before she knows it, she’s crying, curled in on herself and rubbing at her aching throat.

Draco offers her a hand it hold and she thinks that she holds on perhaps a little too tightly, but she doesn’t think she’s quite prepared to let go.

She hasn’t cried, at all, since it’s happened, and she thinks this is the first step.

After all, how can she go back from here?

* * *

It’s another month before Hermione brews up the courage to talk to Harry. It’s one of the rare days where the two of them are completely alone, Draco having gone to spend the day in the company of his mother and father.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Harry says, suspicious, and she gives him a small smile, that may or may not be a little bit sad.

“I wanted to talk about—that day,” she says, slowly, the words like fire in her throat.

Harry nods after a moment. “I figured you might.”

“Why haven’t you said anything?” she whispers.

“You weren’t ready.”

“What makes you think I am now?”

He eyes her curiously, the smiles. “Because you asked.”

She swallows down her rising panic. “Right. Well, I just wanted to—talk. I don’t understand what’s _happening_.”

“Do you remember,” Harry says quietly, “when Sirius died?”

Hermione bites her tongue, then nods.

“I think it’s similar to that situation, isn’t it? You only got to have her around for a year, and, well, you loved her. In a different way, of course, but . . . it’s still love. And I remember how that felt, Hermione. I was _angry_ and I was scared, and I thought that it couldn’t be the end but it _was_.”

“So many people you loved—”

“Are gone, yes,” Harry says, reaching across the short distance between them to grab her hand. “So are a lot of people _you_ loved. But to lose people now—and, from a war long since fought, no less—is hardly fair. And I’m sorry it has to be like this. I miss her, too, but I didn’t know her the same way you did.”

Hermione nods absently, and he draws back, something clouding his eyes. He sits there, and his fingers shake, and Hermione doesn’t have the heart to say the words on her tongue.

* * *

“I don’t really understand,” Hermione says.

Ron gives her a curious look. “That’s new,” he says simply, and grins.

She rolls her eyes. “No, well, I don’t understand about my magic. It’s not in my control anymore. Not since . . .”

He nods in understanding, and Hermione thinks that this is a big change from the boy that kissed her when they were eighteen years old.

“Well, my mum told us, a long time ago, about bonds. Emotional, magical, physical—just _bonds_ , in general.” He frowns. “I mean, it’s an entirely different branch of magic, based on love and such. But it’s such a big thing, isn’t it? I mean, when a bond snaps, it breaks something more than the emotional bond, or the magical bond, or the physical bond.

“She said that everything is tied together with our emotions, our bodies, and our magic. So, say, when a _magical_ bond breaks, it would make your emotions a buzz and your body wouldn’t quite feel the same way, you know?”

“So, you think we were just too close and—?”

Ron shakes his head. “No, that’s not how bonds work. If it was, then we’d all be messes.” He offers her a small smile. “No, it’s based on a—well, mum said it like—a _pure_ kind of love. You know, that cheesy stuff that everybody stops believing in after their a kid? I mean, I imagine it’s more than a romantic thing. Realistically, I think, were, say, _Harry_ to die, I’d say something would snap.

“You and Pansy—well, you were in love with each other in a way I don’t think I’ve seen many people fall in love. I saw it in my parents, and I think I see it in Harry and Draco, too. But . . . their stories aren’t tragedies. Yours _is_. And that’s what makes it worse.”

“I don’t _understand._ I’m an _adult_. I should have some kind of control over my magic, bond or no bond.” She swallows. “It shouldn’t _be_ like this.”

Ron gives her a grim look. “Magic is really fickle, Hermione. It snaps and it rears at things that logically don’t make sense. In some senses, sure, it’s understandable. If a wizard is being threatened, or he’s angry, right? But I don’t think you get to choose, exactly, how it goes.” He shrugs. “It’s just—part of the process. Your magic will go back to how it was eventually, lying dormant unless you ask it to not, but for now I guess it’s just what you have to live with.”

“When did you get so wise?” she mutters, a small smile ghosting over her face.

“I guess when you stopped being there for me all the time.”

They stare at each other for a moment, and then a grin slides over his face, and Hermione feels laughter welling in her chest. Oh, things have already changed.

She can change this, too.

* * *

The shattering of glass is what wakes her up.

It’s been another two weeks, and something’s been not sitting right with Hermione lately. Something in the way Harry looks when he wakes up, the way Draco looks at him with something a little fiercer than worry lighting up his eyes.

A quick glance at the clock as she makes her way to the source of the sound tells her it’s roughly four in the morning. She bites her tongue and holds her wand steadily at her side, though her hands tremble slightly.

She creeps into the kitchen, and there only person there is Harry. By his feet are the shards of china. His hands shake in such a way she’s never seen before, and when he looks at her, she almost wants to cry.

His eyes are _dead_. Hollow, lifeless. Bags line the undersides of them, and they’re glassy. Able to crack as easily as the dish on the floor.

He laughs, and Hermione flinches.

“I didn’t think you would be awake.”

Hermione stares at him, long and hard, then shakes her head slowly. “I wasn’t.”

Harry winces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Hermione exhales slowly, then does a short dance around the glass on the floor, and grabs her friend’s arm gently, guiding him to the table and lowering him into a chair. His breathing is uneven, his skin pale and clammy. It’s not right, she thinks as she sits beside him and offers her hand silently. He doesn’t deserve _this_ , after all the things he’s been through.

“I can understand if you don’t—”

“I don’t know how to deal with it,” he whispers, not quite look at her but squeezing her hand hard enough for Hermione to understand that he feels her there.

“Every time I close my eyes, I relive _some_ part of it.” He shudders, and Hermione swallows back her sudden panic. “Draco keeps telling me I can’t keep going like this, that I’m burning myself out, but . . .”

“You use potions to sleep,” Hermione whispers, and he nods stiffly.

“Dreamless sleep,” he mutters. “They only let me have so much, though.”

“It’s not good for you.”

“It’s the only thing that helps.”

Hermione feels bile rising in her throat and fights back tears. “There are other things. Talking—talking helps, doesn’t it?”

“You haven’t talked, though.”

Harry lowers his gaze when she turns a sharp look to him. She softens slightly and nods. “You’re right. I haven’t.”

“You can’t expect me to—”

With fire burning in her veins, boiling her blood, she says, “I’ll talk right now, if you do, too.”

His eyes are closed tightly, but he eventually gives a short sigh and agrees.

Hermione feels her shoulders slump slightly. She takes three deep breaths in and out. “Well, what do you expect me to say?”

Harry’s mouth twists into a small, distorted smile. “How you feel?” he suggests, and Hermione snorts.

“Well, all right.” She taps her fingers against the table. “I feel—empty, I guess, most than anything. Like something’s missing. Ron said something about bonds, and how emotion is tied in with magic and I keep going back to that _day_ , when you found me there. And I think—I think I’m just _wrecked_. I don’t know who I _was_. I don’t want to be that person anymore, either. I want to be someone else, who doesn’t only get to see the one she loves most while she’s asleep. I feel whole, but I don’t know _how_ to feel that way.” She rubs at her eyes, and notices Harry watches her with an expression she can’t quite pin down on his face.

“And people keep saying I’ll get better, but it’s been nearly three months and I still feel exactly how I felt before, when I—” She stops herself, a sob wanting to escape her. Harry rubs her hand soothingly, and she tightens her resolve. “Before she died, I should have done _more_. Worked to _save her_ , and instead I let her _die_. To some extent, it _has_ to be my fault. It’s not—it wouldn’t make sense if it weren’t.”

She makes a strangled noise, and she thinks that it might take her a while to talk again. Harry doesn’t tell her she’s wrong, only looks her over with quiet curiosity.

“I see people. All the time. When I’m asleep, usually, but sometimes I think I see them in shadows or . . . or in reflections.” He’s silent for a count of five, then continues in a shaking voice, “They’re all dead. All gone. But I see them in my dreams and in darkness and I wonder if they hate me. They _should_ ,” he adds, catching Hermione’s look. “I’ve wronged them, in a lot of ways, haven’t I?”

“You did good, too,” says a voice behind him, and Hermione looks up sharply as Harry jumps.

“Draco, I thought you were asleep.”

Draco scoffs. “And leave you to break the china my parents got us for Christmas? I think not, Potter.”

“Putting china above me, I see.”

“No, you prat.” Draco swats at his shoulder. “I think you breaking it left you a little more damaged than the bloody plates.” He scowls. “Show me your feet.”

“My feet? Draco, honestly—”

But as he complains, Draco rolls his eyes and presses himself against the floor, lifting Harry’s feet to look at their bottoms. Hermione glances down at him, eyebrows furrowed, and watches him pull his wand out and mutter some spells under his breath. He stands up again once he’s finished and glares at Harry.

“They were covered in blood!” he says, anger drifting into his tone. But, after a moment, Hermione shakes her head. No, not quite anger. Something deeper. It _could_ be anger. It could be sadness, or relief, or fear, as well, though.

“No, they weren’t!” Harry protests. “I would have felt that.”

Draco narrows his eyes and points to a trail of the floor, where distinctly red footprints stained the wood. Harry follows his gaze and mutters a small, “Oh.”

Draco heaves a sigh and worries at his lip. “I don’t want you to be hurt, Harry. But I can’t defend you if you’re hurting yourself.”

Hermione blinks, tears welling up in her eyes.

“You’re hurting, too,” Harry whispers.

Draco smiles wryly. “For now, yes.”

“But . . . ?”

“But I’m facing my anguish and my grief. Harry, listen to me, you _deserve_ so much. You deserve more than you give yourself credit for, and it makes me unhappy. To see you in pain, at all, makes me unhappy. You’re the most important thing in my life right now. I won’t let you continue to ache like this.”

Hermione turns away, the word bouncing through her head. _Deserve. You deserve it_.

What did _Pansy_ deserve? Pansy, who tried to hand Harry over to keep herself alive? Pansy, who hid herself away until she could hide anymore, who faced the Cruciatus when she tried to say “No” and woke up in the night to tortured screams?

Maybe in a different time, Hermione would have thought Pansy deserved what she got. Maybe, two years ago, she might have _wished_ this on somebody like Pansy. But that’s not _her_.

Pansy, the girl who cared more carefully for her best friend than for herself, who put herself through pain and fear and _torture_ to see that made it out alive, only to wind up dying later. Pansy, who acted out of cowardice and fear and everything in between, who wanted to be brave and brilliant but _couldn’t_ , never learned what it _meant_.

Oh, but this girl was brave and brilliant in her own way, wasn’t she? Bravery, to stand against the people that would have kept her safe, to endure a curse meant to hurt her, where any proper coward would have fallen to her knees and begged for forgiveness. Who told people it would be okay, who supported those who strove to _make_ it okay, when she didn’t believe the words herself. Who held her best friend’s hand when he wanted nothing but a way _out_ and told him that he deserved something good and whole and _real_.

_That_ girl deserved life and happiness. Every part of her, from the fearful coward to the brave and brilliant witch.

She wipes at her eyes as tears begin to spill from them and faces Harry and Draco again. Draco has a protective hand on Harry’s shoulder, his jaw clenched. Harry watches her with intrigue deep in his eyes.

“What did she deserve?” she whispers. “If good people deserve good things and bad people deserve bad things, what did she deserve?”

“She wasn’t a bad person,” Draco says stiffly. “She was a better person than most people I know.”

“I know that, but . . . she _believed_ she wasn’t, and . . . well, it’s about perception, isn’t it?” Hermione bites her cheek. “Not everybody believes she was a good person.”

“It’s not about good people and bad people,” Harry says quietly. “Nobody is wholly good nor wholly bad.” He pauses, then a rueful smile crosses his face. “Well, I suppose Voldemort was, but he wasn’t really a _person_. Anyway, what I mean is that there are people who make mistakes”—he glances at Draco—“and people who think they don’t.” This time, his gaze travels to Hermione, and rest there calmly. “Mistakes don’t _define_ a person. Everyone is capable of doing good things or of doing bad things. In the end, it doesn’t make them a good person or a bad person. It doesn’t change the way they’ll wind up living. Whether or not they deserve to feel pain. It’s kind of like . . . a game of luck. Sometimes the best people are the ones who wind up getting hurt the most.” He shrugs. “Sometimes the worst wind up with everything they ever dreamed of having.”

“But—,” Draco starts to say before Harry rolls his eyes.

“Well, that’s the way it is. You can’t _change_ it.”

Draco gives Harry a withering look. “But it’s not fair.”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you? _Life_ isn’t fair.”

“My mother assumed I would have a wonderful life, no matter what might happen.”

Harry snorts. “And how’d that work out?”

“I’d say I’m rather pleased with it.”

Hermione smiles and stands up. She has a lot of things to think about, but for now, exhaustion pulls at her bones.

* * *

The next day she goes to Pansy’s grave. She hasn’t been here since the funeral, she thinks, and she’s rather afraid of what she’ll face. But snow falls from the grey sky in lazy circles, and she remembers that it’s nearly Christmas. But today is not Christmas. No, today is just a day. A day to talk and to be unhappy and to let the sorrow drown her. And that’s _okay_. She’ll come back her in two weeks with stories and smiles and something like joy in her eyes.

But right now she carries red roses in her arms and sets them against the white of the snow on the ground. Waving her wand and muttering the words beneath her breath, she casts a warming charm and sits down before the tombstone, shaking slightly.

“I’m sorry,” she offers. The wind howls around her, some kind of response that ghosts gently over her skin.

She shivers, but she’s far from cold. “I thought that it wouldn’t happen. I thought that we could fix it. That was silly of me, to believe there was a way to fix things when they were already so broken. But, well, that’s always been who I am, hasn’t it? I tried to free the house-elves in fourth year.” She smiles softly. “Well, I _still_ think they deserve freedom, but perhaps not in such a forceful way.

“Things have been . . . tense, lately. I’ve not been great. I don’t really think Draco has been, either, but he’s so focused on Harry . . . I feel bad for them both, you know. They’re suffering. From the war, from this . . . it’s taking a long time to heal.”

Absently, she twirls her wand in her hands. “But I think things _are_ getting better. I wasn’t sure if they would, but something just . . . snapped. And suddenly everything just _shifted_. Of course I’m sad. But maybe this is how things have to be. We don’t really get to pick and choose our fates. The past will be the past, and the future will be every day after.”

She’s greeted by a cold silence, of course, and she stands up, tears dripping lightly down her cheeks. The past will be the past, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

* * *

Christmas passes, and Hermione goes back to Pansy’s grave five more times. On Christmas day, of course, but then she’s accompanied by Harry, Draco, Ron, Blaise, Daphne, and Astoria. An invitation was extended to Pansy’s parents, but they turned it down gently and said they would prefer to visit her on their own.

With each visit, she’s brought something new. A new story to tell, a new emotions on her sleeve; something to say and to give. It makes things _lighter_. Her shoulders don’t feel quite so heavy, the smiles she once offered effortlessly become easier and easier to muster. Oh, she still feels a hole in her chest, a symphony of saddened music humming within her, but now it feels like these things are sacred, belong wholly to Pansy, and will never be filled. She doesn’t _want_ them filled.

A bond as such as they had, she things, must mean _something,_ even now. And if this is what it means, to be forever attached, to love someone who’s already gone, then so be it. She’ll love Pansy, the memory, the girl buried now, beneath the snow, for as long as she’ll live.

Their time together was short. Too short. It’s not fair, to lose things so young, to feel such pain pressing down on you before anybody else would even consider it.

But this had started out as a war. And war demands sacrifice, and sacrifice demands death.

Now, when she looks at her friends, she sees the marks the war has left on them. Harry, with his nightmares and his scars and his hollowed out eyes; Draco, with his aversion to people who try to touch his arms, with his faded Mark and the scars along his skin; Ron, with his broken family and his sudden wise words, with his losses and his fears and his bad habits.

She sees the things Pansy left behind in Astoria’s smile and in Daphne’s diligence and in Blaise’s ideas of the future.

She sees it all in herself in the way she smiles in the morning and the shadows that lurk around corners that she faces in despair and _fear_. That fear, which grips her and controls her before she pushes it back and reminds herself that she never used to be afraid of the dark.

Four months have come and gone. She doesn’t have to let go yet. She can still run with her head bowed. But as the weeks go by, four months turning to five, and eventually to six, she won’t be able to.

Her magic is tame again, her mind clear—until it isn’t, but she doesn’t like to dwell on those moments, and as time presses further, they become less and less frequent, anyway. She’s doing what Pansy would want, she thinks: moving forward.

But, then, she thinks that maybe Pansy wouldn’t want her to move forward completely. To forget her and continue as though nothing had happened, when, really, everything had. Ever since that day outside of the café, when Hermione offered to retry, things have changed. To see light in darkness and to see darkness in light. To seek out the sound of sweet singing and to rejoice in it, before it disappears completely. To fall in love, and be in love, and love so deeply that nothing else seems to matter. To feel whole and complete and _bright_ with every touch, every kiss. To feel despair looming scarily close, to fear that oncoming storm, but to face it head-on. Bravery, cowardice—a mingling of definitions and words that shouldn’t matter but just _do_.

That’s the difference, how everything has changed. Hermione once saw things in black and white, with small touches of grey shifting between them. Now, when she looks around her, she sees in vibrant colours and emotions that she can’t quite place, that stir at her stomach, at her chest, in her head. She sees things more clearly, more colourful, fuller yet so much more _empty_. She feels blood trickle from her heart and strings pull at her shoulders. She hears the faint remnants of a soft melody and her heart beating and she knows she’s _alive_ , but that life is insignificant and empty and _everything falls eventually_.

She saw the fall in Draco, long before she could acknowledge he wasn’t wholly bad; she saw it in Harry, after everything should have been over and yet it wasn’t; she saw it in Ron, when he lost his brother and his family ripped at its carefully sewn seams.

She saw it in Pansy, from the very beginning.

She saw it in herself, when her smiles became vulnerable and her chest constricted with a feeling she can only call love. That’s the turning point, the little shift in everything. That’s when it began, she sometimes thinks. Or maybe that’s where it ended.

A transition, of seasons and of years, of days and of months. Each beginning has an end, and each end has a beginning. Sometimes, you need to look a little deeper than what’s on the surface, but suffering and happiness walk parallel roads to each other.

And Hermione’s found herself straddling the line between the two. Maybe fear claws at her chest as shadows creep up on her, but she finds joy in the rising of the sun and the echoing of laughter around a room of those she loves. For right now, she think that it’s enough. She can listen closely to the symphony within her, or she can focus on the strings that hold her shoulders tightly, if that’s what she wants. Or she can let go, throw her hands up and laugh and forget everything that ever held her down.

But most of the time, she sits and she listens for something else. In those moments, she lets the slow, steady ticking of the clock wash over her, to allow her fingers to go numb with remembrance of the things she lost, the things she will continue to lose. The clock is a reassurance, an anchor, a big thing that shouts of insignificance and of loss and of love. Mostly, though, it’s a greeting—and it’s a good-bye.

After all, the end always brings about a new beginning.

And somewhere in the world, the sun is rising, and Hermione can see her path clearly.

This, she thinks, is just the beginning.


End file.
